


A Perfect End to a Rotten Day

by CorvetteClaire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: Harry is having a truly bad day, capped by Draco saying the forbidden words... "Hurry up!"





	A Perfect End to a Rotten Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fun, silly piece of PWP Smut that I wrote ages ago in response to a Sex Cheques challenge (unfortunately, I don't remember where the challenge was posted, so I can't direct you to the other entries, which were all marvelous). I reread it this morning and decided it was worth sharing. I hope you enjoy it!

 

****Harry watched the milk trickle onto his cereal with a kind of lazy fascination that bordered on the morbid. He was not particularly hungry and not even faintly interested in the bowl of cereal in front of him, but the patterns made by the white milk against the grainy brown surface were mesmerizing. He slowed the flow of liquid even more and began to trace a lazy spiral from the center of the bowl outward, ignoring the droplets of milk that spattered everything within a two-foot range.

"Will you _please_ hurry up, Harry! The rest of us would like to eat, too."

He looked up at Hermione, sending a stream of milk onto his left hand when he incautiously moved the pitcher. "Huh?"

"Oh, honestly." She reached out to catch the pitcher, then pried it from his grasp. "You're hopeless this morning."

Harry wiped his hand on his napkin, looked rather vaguely at his bowl of cereal, now swimming in milk, and pushed it away with a grimace.

"You might try getting some sleep for a change," Hermione groused, as she poured milk on her own cereal and passed the pitcher across the table to Dean.

On Harry's other side, Ron shoved most of a piece of toast into his mouth, chewed a few times, and mumbled, "You'll spoil Malfoy's good looks, if you don't let him get his beauty sleep."

Harry glanced instinctively at the Slytherin table. Malfoy sat in his usual place between Crabbe and Goyle, looking as precise and fabulous as ever, much to Harry's visible relief. He grinned shamefacedly, when he realized that Ron had successfully baited him, and he jabbed his friend in the ribs with an elbow.

"Some things are more important than sleep."

"Yes. Like your NEWTs," Hermione retorted.

Ron spluttered in outrage, sending half-chewed bits of toast in every direction, then started coughing. When he could manage to speak again, he said, "Will you give it a rest, Hermione? Between you and McGonagall, I'm _dreaming_ about those stupid exams!"

"You should be _studying_ for them, then we wouldn't have to nag you. Oh, do hurry up, Harry! You haven't even started eating, and we'll be late for class."

"I'm not hungry," Harry mumbled, earning him another snort from Hermione and another rude remark from Ron.

The day went steadily down hill from there. Harry lost count of the number of times someone told him to hurry up, wake up, or get his tired old arse out of the way. McGonagall snapped at him three times in Transfiguration for letting his mind wander, and once in the hallway when he held up traffic by dropping an armload of books. Neville caught his own sleeve on fire in Potions and knocked over Harry's cauldron in his frenzy to put it out. Harry's potion was ruined, his robe hopelessly stained, and his legs scalded by the boiling liquid. Snape was, predictably, not happy and only too ready to blame Harry for the mess.

Harry's misery hit its nadir during Quidditch practice, when every one of his teammates felt it necessary to yell at him at least once. Ron finally shouted, in frustration, "I could catch the bleeding snitch faster _on foot!_ " After that, Harry decided that he'd had enough and called a halt to the practice. He handed the chest full of equipment over to Madam Hooch, nodding tiredly when she griped that she should have locked up the shed half an hour ago, then trudged up the long hill to the castle at Ron's side.

They were halfway up the slope when Ron suddenly turned to Harry and said, "I know what your problem is, mate. You've had more Malfoy than is good for you."

Harry stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixed on Ron's face but seeing nothing. "Bloody Hell. I forgot." Then he gave a great leap forward and started up the hill at a run, leaving a startled Ron gaping at his back. _Oh please_ , Harry thought as he ran, _Oh please let him be in a good mood for once!_

For in the midst of his ghastly day, Harry had completely forgotten that he'd made a date with Draco for tonight, and he was already late. Draco knew he had Quidditch practice, so he shouldn't be too angry, but there was simply no telling with the prickly Slytherin. One day, he would smile sweetly and wave away Harry's apologies. The next, he would turn on his heel and stalk out of the room in a towering snit. And today, of all days, Harry needed that sweet smile. He needed to lie down in front of the hearth with his silver dragon in his arms and let the combined heat of Draco and the fire wash over him. He needed a long, slow, loving night.

He didn't dare look at his watch, as he rushed up to the Gryffindor tower and grabbed a change of clothes. He needed a shower, badly, but he knew from long experience that Malfoy wouldn't object to the smell of sweat and anticipation on his skin, and a shower would only make him that much later. So it was in a disheveled, breathless, grimy, and decidedly nervous state that he arrived at the door to the Room of Requirement.

The latch opened easily beneath his hand, and a flood of candlelight streamed out the door to greet him when he pushed it wide. Harry took this as a good sign, hoping that lit candles and a blazing fire meant Draco was in the room, waiting for him. His pulse began to race with something sweeter than nervousness, as he stepped into the room and threw the bolt to lock the door.

"Don't bother. You're just going back through it again."

Harry turned quickly to find Draco behind him. He stood a few paces away, hands planted on his hips, eyes narrowed dangerously, face frozen in a disdainful sneer. In his stocking feet, he stood several inches shorter than Harry, but he managed to fill the room and dominate the larger boy with his presence in spite of his small stature. Harry, who knew only too well how vicious Draco could be when angry, flinched at the touch of his seething gaze.

"Hullo, Malfoy," Harry said sheepishly.

" _Where have you been?_ " Draco demanded, pronouncing every word with ominous precision.

"I told you I had Quidditch practice tonight."

Draco's face relaxed a trifle, telling Harry that he had forgotten about the practice and was mollified by this explanation, even if he wouldn't admit it. "You're still late. I almost left."

Harry took in his disheveled state – shoes and tie gone, robe hanging open, hair mussed, shirt coming untucked – and grinned. "Lying sod."

"Well, I _should_ have left. It would serve you right."

At the sullen note in his voice, Harry knew that the storm was nearly over, with no hexes thrown and no mortal injuries. He let his smile turn wheedling and took a cautious step toward Draco, hands lifted and spread in invitation. "Yes, it would, but there are much better ways of punishing me."

Draco grunted and crossed his arms over his chest, still eyeing Harry through narrowed lids, as though sizing him up for an attack.

"Would you feel better if I told you that practice was a complete disaster? That we're going to suffer a humiliating defeat against Ravenclaw and won't be able to show our faces around the school for the rest of the term?"

A glint of satisfaction showed in Draco's eyes. "Yes."

"You'll enjoy that." Harry took another step, bringing him right up against Malfoy, and slipped his arms around the other boy's waist. "You can taunt me in public… call me names…"

"Hmm." Draco's head fell back, lifting his mouth closer to Harry's, and one hand skimmed lightly up Harry's arm to the back of his neck. "Wide-mouthed tree frog."

Harry could feel Draco's fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking it, and anticipation quickened his breath. This was what he had waited for – ached for – all day, even when he didn't realize it. This teasing, gentle, tantalizing pleasure. This slow dance of seduction.

"I've never heard any complaints from you about my mouth," he breathed, more to torture himself by withholding the kiss he wanted so desperately than because he enjoyed trading gibes with Draco.

"Because I'm too much of a gentleman," Draco responded.

"You have a taste for amphibians."

"I've been accused of worse…"

Harry abruptly tightened his hold on Draco, drawing him upward in the same moment that he bent his head to lock their mouths together. Their lips met and parted, their tongues thrusting forward to find each other, and they plunged eagerly into a deep, clinging, hungry kiss.

It went on forever. Harry lost himself in it, closing his eyes and his mind to the entire universe so he could feel and taste and know nothing beyond the body in his arms, the mouth moving against his. He lifted Draco from his feet with one arm, while his free hand moved to stroke his hair and throat, pushing aside fabric to find the elegant line of neck, shoulder and collarbone. After a time, he could not bear to touch only with his fingers, and he broke away from Draco's kiss to trace a burning path down his throat with his tongue.

Draco flung both arms around Harry's neck for support, arched his back and tossed back his head, uttering a sound somewhere between a groan and a purr that started the blood pounding even harder in Harry's ears. In the next gasping breath, Harry felt Draco's legs come up to circle his waist, then long fingers began to tear at the fastenings of his robe.

"Wait. I'll get it," he mumbled into damp, sweet flesh.

"Hurry…" Malfoy groaned. "Hurry!"

"No." Harry left off nibbling Draco's neck and lifted his head. From this close, he could see the fierce longing, almost like pain, in Draco's eyes, and he couldn't resist dropping a kiss on one pale-lashed eyelid. "Trust me. It'll be better this way."

Malfoy did not pull away from the gentle caress of Harry's lips, but his voice had a savage edge to it when he hissed, "The hell it will! If you don't hurry up and shag me, Potter, I'll hex you into next week!"

Harry stiffened, and Draco, sensing his sudden shift in mood, fell completely still in his arms. Very softly, and very deliberately, Harry said, "And if you say those words again, I'll walk out of here and not look back."

"You aren't serious. You wouldn't leave me like this."

Harry stared directly into his eyes, letting him see the utter sincerity in his own. "Wouldn't I?"

Draco swallowed once, loudly, and held his tongue.

After a tense moment, when the only sound in the room was their labored breathing, Harry said, flatly, "I don't want to hear the words _hurry up_ out of you for the rest of the night. If you want me, we do it my way. If not, you can go shag the giant squid for all I care."

Draco, caught between annoyance and curiosity, disentangled his legs from Harry's waist and swung his feet to the floor. He did not pull out of Harry's arms, but there was a tangible distance between them now, and Draco gazed speculatively across it, face guarded and eyes veiled.

"We do it _your_ way?" The words were a challenge, but there was no bite to them.

"Can't you stand to give me control for one night?"

"That depends." Harry could not tell from Draco's expression whether annoyance or curiosity was winning the day, and the other boy's voice stayed carefully neutral when he said, "What do I get for playing the obedient wife?"

Harry sighed, all the frustration and disappointment of his day welling up in him. "I don't want you to play at anything," he said, wearily, "and I certainly don't expect obedience. I just want to relax, take it slow, enjoy our night without worrying about how fast we can get it done and get out of here."

Draco's lashes fell another notch, but not fast enough to mask the flare of hunger in his eyes. "Do you know how long this day has been? How much of it I've spent thinking about being here with you?"

"I know."

"I don't want to rush out of here. Hell, Harry, I don't want to leave at all, but you can't keep me waiting all day and half the night, then barge in here and kiss me like that without, er, raising my expectations."

"I should hope I raised _something_ ," Harry retorted.

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"Shag you senseless. But not the first second I walk in, and not up against the door."

"How about that nice sofa over there? Or the armchair? Or the table?" Draco pressed his crotch more tightly to Harry's thigh, letting him feel the full length and heat of his erection. "Or right here would be good."

"No, it would not be good." Harry sighed again and grabbed Draco by the arm to drag him across the room. They reached the hearth, where the Room had provided them with a large, thick rug and a cheerful fire. Harry planted them in the middle of the rug, turned Draco forcibly to face him, and clasped his face between his hands. "This would be good… _will_ be good, if you can shut your gob long enough for me to show you."

"You'll really leave if I say it…"

"Yes."

"And you're going to play all your meanest tricks on me – kissing and nibbling and stroking and messing about – so that I'll go raving mad before you finally shag me."

Harry grinned. "Yes."

Draco thought about that for a long moment, then a sudden smile lit his face as inspiration struck. Bending gracefully, he slid the sock from his left foot and held it up in triumph. Harry watched, torn between laughter and disbelief, as Draco wadded up the top of the sock and stuffed it into his mouth. He looked remarkably foolish, with his mouth full of black wool, the stretched-out and dirty foot hanging ludicrously over his chin, and Harry had the overwhelming desire to gather him up in his arms and murmur childish endearments to him. But Draco didn't like being called "silly darling" or "my lovely", no matter how playful his mood, so Harry contented himself with putting his arms around the Slytherin and laughing down into his twinkling, mischievous eyes.

"Now I can't kiss you."

Draco said something along the lines of, "Mmmph nnghn phnnmghph." At Harry's baffled look, he plucked the sock from his mouth and said, grinning maliciously, "You can't have it both ways, Potter."

"I guess not." Taking the sock from Draco, Harry leaned in to kiss him deeply. Then he pulled away, brandished the sock, and chirped, "Open up!"

When Draco was once more safely gagged, Harry began twiddling the buttons on his shirt and plucking at the fabric, making no real attempt to remove it. Draco settled his weight against Harry, once more pressing his swollen crotch to the taller boy's thigh, and leaned his torso back so that Harry could reach all of his buttons. Harry tugged the long tail of Draco's shirt free of his trousers, then slipped a hand up inside it to run his fingers over the taut muscle and smooth skin of his stomach.

"I do love kissing and nibbling and stroking," Harry murmured, "but messing about, now… that's where I really shine."

"Nnngh," Draco responded.

Harry chuckled softly and leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Admit it. You like it when I mess with you."

Draco's breath came more quickly, and a muffled groan rose in his throat as Harry's lips touched first his jaw, then his neck.

"By the time I'm done with you, you'll forget you ever heard the words _hurry up_."

 

Whether or not Draco remembered those fateful words, he was not able to say them, so Harry could indulge himself to the fullest. He undressed his lover slowly, letting his lips and tongue follow his hands on their leisurely progress over Draco's body, tasting each inch of skin that he bared, pausing often to linger in some especially sweet spot until Draco was trembling and whimpering at his touch.

When Malfoy lay naked on the great rug, firelight gleaming a provocative orange on his porcelain-white skin, Harry shrugged out of his own clothes with little ceremony. Then he stretched out on top of Draco and resumed his seduction of the other boy, this time savoring the feel of bare skin sliding and rubbing against his own.

Draco kept the sock in his mouth and made no attempt to rush Harry, but he could not swallow the wordless cries that the Gryffindor's touch dragged out of him. Nor could he lie still under such an assault. His hands clutched sometimes at the rug, sometimes at the mop of unruly black hair moving over his chest and belly, sometimes at Harry's lean ribs or shoulders. When Harry slid down to lie between his thighs, Draco spread them wantonly and flung one leg up over the other boy's shoulder, opening himself in a wordless invitation that Harry accepted readily.

Finally, when Harry knew that Draco had passed beyond rational thought or the power of speech, he plucked the sock from Draco's mouth and kissed him. Then, swiftly, he rolled him onto his stomach, lifted his hips, and drove deeply into him. Draco's gasp of welcome turned almost instantly to a cry of release, and he came in a long, sweet, wracking climax. Harry was only a second or two behind him. Then they collapsed onto the rug, arms and legs tangled together, bodies pressed close, the sock and Harry's threats forgotten in contentment.

 

Some time later, when he could muster the energy to move and speak again, Harry pushed himself up on one elbow and smiled down at the flushed, peaceful face of the boy lying so close to him. Draco's eyes were closed, his mouth open slightly, his cheek resting against Harry's chest and one hand tucked loosely beneath his chin. He looked ridiculously young and beautiful to Harry's doting eyes, like a child too innocent to know anything of sex or power struggles or the kind of evil that lived in their world. It was an illusion, Harry knew, that would vanish the moment Draco opened his eyes, but it was a nice one to entertain, just for a little while.

Sensing Harry's gaze on him, Draco awoke. His lashes flicked upward, and his eyes – unguarded in that first instant and smoky with remembered passion – met Harry's. Both of them smiled. Then Draco's smile turned to a smirk, and his eyes glittered wickedly.

"Are you going to gag me again?" he asked, in a velvet purr designed to set Harry's pulse pounding.

It worked, but Harry needed a bit more rest before he mounted a fresh assault on the Malfoy fortress. "Soon."

"How soon?"

Harry grinned triumphantly down at him and bent to nip at his lower lip. Draco batted at his head in an deliberately weak attempt to push him away, then submitted to his kisses with an eagerness that told Harry just how willing he was to be gagged – or anything else his whimsical lover might like.

When he was sure that Draco was suitably softened up, Harry left off kissing him and murmured, "Now, admit that you enjoyed that."

"Enjoyed what? The filthy sock in my mouth? Or being ordered about by some snooty Gryffindor git?"

"Both."

"Not bloody likely."

"Then I suppose I'll have to work on you some more."

"The rule about not saying… you know… that's in effect all night?"

"All night."

"What about tomorrow night? And the night after that? Am I doomed to spend the rest of the term gnawing on a sock?"

"We can probably find something a bit cleaner…"

"And what if _I_ want to make the rules some time? Do you have to eat a piece of your clothing to satisfy my whims?"

"We'll see." Harry stroked his face lovingly and snatched another quick kiss before whispering, "Maybe you'll decide you _like_ my rules."

Draco squirmed a little at the tickling of Harry's breath in his ear, then sighed dramatically and fumbled around on the rug for his sock.

When he held it up, a question and an offer in his eyes, Harry chuckled. "Not just yet. First, I want a little more of this." He rolled on top of Draco, feeling the other boy's arms go around him, and sank down into an endless, flaming kiss.

*** *** ***

Harry sat staring down into his breakfast cereal, watching the patterns the milk made on the lumpy surface and listening with half an ear to his friends' chatter. Hermione was lecturing Ron about the NEWTs, as usual, and Ron was whinging. Nothing had changed since yesterday morning, except that Harry was smiling as he gazed down at his food, and his exhaustion was of the deepest, most satisfied, most delicious kind.

He was still contemplating his breakfast but making no move to eat it, when a storm of owls poured through the windows of the Hall to deliver the mail. Harry did not look up – the mail held no more interest for him than the nattering of Ron and Hermione – until a large eagle owl landed smack in Hermione's plate, showering her with scrambled eggs.

"Eurgh!" Hermione cried, picking eggs from her hair. Then she recognized the bird. "Isn't that Malfoy's owl? Honestly, Harry, can't you exchange your love letters in person and spare our breakfasts?"

Harry flushed darkly and reached for the package the owl held in his beak. "It's not a love letter."

"Your death threats, then," she snapped, throwing a glare at Draco that he missed because he was busy snapping at Goyle for using the last of the marmalade.

Harry gave the owl a piece of toast in thanks, then turned his attention to the package. Inside he found a note and a small bundle of dark wool tied with a ribbon. He unfolded the note, a smile already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The note was not made of parchment, but of glossy paper, printed like a cheque. It bore a picture of a buxom witch in black fishnet stockings and an alarming corset that pushed her breasts up nearly to her chin. She smiled winningly at Harry and fluttered her eyelashes, doing her utmost to attract his attention, but he ignored her. He was far more interested in the writing on the cheque than in some posturing nymphet in ridiculous underwear.

Harry knew what the cheque was. Ginny Weasley had given them to Harry and Draco as a humorous Christmas gift, and Harry had used one or two of them since to beguile Draco when he was in a foul temper. But he had never known Draco to use one, and the sight of the Slytherin's familiar aristocratic scrawl on the erotic promissory note made his face flush with pleasure.

The cheque said: "I promise to stop telling you to hurry up." It was signed with Draco's full, flourishing signature and sealed with a blob of green wax, stamped with the Malfoy Family crest.

His tell-tale flush deepening, Harry tugged on the ribbon that held the little bundle together. It fell open, dangling from his fingers: a black wool sock. Harry laughed aloud, then hurriedly muffled the sound behind his hand and stuffed sock and note into his pocket. Hermione was staring at him, as were most of the Gryffindors at his end of the table, but Harry didn't care. He just grinned like an idiot and patted his pocket in satisfaction. Tonight was going to be fun.

**_The End_ **


End file.
